


Unravel

by mika60



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: I just can't get over how much Otabek must love Yuri's hair, M/M, The rating leans a little M, bear with me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 20:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10952601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mika60/pseuds/mika60
Summary: Four times Otabek lets Yuri's hair go free.





	Unravel

“May I?”

“Yah.”

Fingers carefully reach for the rubber band, its coiled state tightly constricting braided tresses. With expertise, Otabek hooks a nail around the flexible material, gently dragging against faint, resilient forces that soon surrender to his touch. Gradually, silky strands cascade like filaments of gold across his knuckle, casting tanned skin aglow. Weaved knots continue to bind various portions of blond hues together, but before Otabek can separate them as he desires, a series of rapid headshakes loosen the braid in a less refined manner, and the figure in front of him abruptly turns.

Around them, the cacophony of backstage carries on in numerous forms, from the conversation of coaches to the orders of rink staff, each of their shouts attempting to gather all necessary parties for the impending press conferences.

And yet, Otabek senses absolutely nothing.

In front of him, there is only Yuri, hair slightly wild in its half-undone condition. His Russian team jacket hangs loosely over narrow shoulders, partially shielding the crimson sequins that comprise his free skate costume. But even such a vibrant color pales in comparison to the golden hues that now lay in juxtaposition, each instance resembling the illuminated tips of a flame. Altogether, he is the same vision that graced Otabek’s eyes years ago: a boy on fire; an astute beauty in the midst of his self-created chaos.

This has become a routine at their joint competitions, where – at least for this season – the two of them have practically guaranteed podium spots, no matter the city or their opponents. Once again, Yuri’s free program is thrilling, relentless – a ferocious performance whose only measure of docility resides in the rigidity of a single braid. And thus, immediately after each medal ceremony, they gravitate towards one another before confronting even more camera flashes and interrogations. There, always during that brief moment of rest, Otabek unravels the last, literal bind upon Yuri’s freedom as he listens to the younger man’s frustrated rants or excited outpourings. It is a simple act that calms both their stresses and any residue adrenaline, unleashing all emotions into the dimension where only the two of them exist.

Today, Yuri is quieter than usual, his aquamarine eyes trained upon a spot somewhat lower than Otabek’s face. Between the halves of the Russian team jacket, a shimmering silver medal dangles – a rather unexpected color against the fiery red. Nevertheless, the Russian grasps his bouquet with the same fervor as always, a proud smirk painted on the corner of his lips.

“Congrats on your first Worlds gold, Beka.”

The spontaneous sincerity prompts a gentle smile to spread across Otabek’s face, and before he can barricade his impulses, one arm begins to travel upward. With poise and tenderness, the same fingers that had released the braid now brush past Yuri’s temple, leaving invisible sparks in their path before moving a few erratic locks behind the helix of an ear. In the same moment, he marvels at how his entire universe can be reflected through a head of gleaming hair.

“I already have the only golds that matter.” He confesses in awkwardly endearing prose.

\--

“May I?”

“Yes… _please_ …”

The hotel suite is wholly dark, save for the glimmering lights of Barcelona outside of the windows. It feels like only minutes ago when they had sealed their nuptials at the altar with an elongated kiss, and mere seconds ago when they were forced to endure all their beloveds guests’ drunken stripteases during the reception. But past the madness, the only moment that matters is now – when it is only the two of them again, performing a ritualistic striptease of their own.

At Yuri’s gasped permission - somehow uttered in between the ardent wrestling of their tongues - Otabek reaches to blindly undo the complex nest of braids decorating his new spouse’s scalp. It is always the last phase in their foreplay, only performed after both of them are fully, gloriously exposed in every other fashion. It is also the step that permits this mutual worship to officially commence, as releasing Yuri’s hair represents an almost divine degree of intimacy. To Otabek, this is when the real Yuri is finally wrapped around him - when they can abundantly embrace one another, with no more artificial barriers separating them.

The rubber bands and hairpins fall to the carpet one by one, forming makeshift tracks of their path right before their nude bodies tumble onto the smooth sheets. Though heated touches soon consume them both, Otabek moans hardest at the display of unconfined, golden hair spread across the mattress, creating an artwork of passionate disarray that’s completely contrary to Yuri’s usual perfection. The spectacle overwhelms the Kazakh nearly to the point of no return, and he forces his gaze aside, all the while reversing their positions so that he now rests underneath instead.

Their lovemaking is always an act of fervent alchemy – only tonight, Otabek is already buried in endless gold before anything even approaches completion. Above him, Yuri chants desperately as he hovers and shifts, flaxen locks sheltering them both like an impenetrable yet malleable shield.

“Beka… _Beka_ …”

Between their clasped fingers, additional hints of gold take the form of two rings, glinting with zeal despite dwelling in utter darkness.

For the next hours – or perhaps lifetimes, as written in their vows – he continues to unravel Yuri in endless ways beyond simply loosening braids. His beloved returns the acts in kind, echoing every touch and whisper until they both succumb to pleasurable unknowns.

\--

“May I?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Yuri’s response is muffled, almost unintelligible due to the two bobby pins clenched between his teeth.

At the confirmation, Otabek proceeds to kneel, placing himself right behind his husband’s slouched, sitting form. Hands quickly make work of the rubber band enclosed around the end of Yuri’s messy braid, its unkemptness the result of a long night’s slumber. Clumps of hair soon surrender to masterful movements, unfolding from their original binds and reconvening in a single collection of icy blond.

“Do you still have a pin left, Yura?” He smooths back the shorter layers near the younger man’s forehead with a comb, hoping to restrain them and return some semblance of orderliness.

“Nope, sorry.” Yuri states matter-of-factly, lips now freed from its earlier handicap. Meanwhile, his fingers secure a final hairpin into his magnum opus, crossing its metal prongs through a slightly neater accumulation of tresses.

Between the curve of the younger man’s elbows and right in front of his crossed calves, the petite figure of their daughter sits with obedience, utterly motionless even as Yuri manipulates her chocolate-colored hair in every direction. Otabek can tell that the attempted design is a pair of French braids, but he also knows that Yuri’s current skill level still requires quite a few bobby pins to accomplish such a daunting task. Nevertheless, there is an evident dose of additional effort, for today marks the special occasion of Ekaterina’s fourth birthday - also the 1,427th day since the two of them first brought her infant version back home from the adoption center. From the very moment she cooed in Yuri’s arms, Otabek admitted eternal defeat, for he knew instantly that she would always be their most precious metal, never to be tarnished, infinitely more valuable than---

All thoughts suddenly ceasing, Otabek frowns as he finally notices his daughter’s outfit for the day, its iridescent fabric previously obscured by Yuri’s shadow.

“Wait, you bought her _another_ gold dress?” His hands abruptly halt all attempts to tame Yuri’s hair.

“Well, she’s going to be a figure skating _gold_ medalist in the future like us, after all.”

As always, Otabek can only sigh at such ambition by proxy. “What if she doesn’t want to skate at all?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Yuri nearly growls at the one thousandth reminder of the possibility. “It may not necessarily be in her genes, but you and I both know it’ll _definitely_ be in her upbringing. I mean, look at our entire damn circle of friends…”

“Don’t curse in front of her, Yura.” He admonishes gently as he resumes fixing errant blond hairs. “And I’ve said this many times – we should let Katya do whatever makes her happy…you’ll be happy as long as she’s happy, right?”

Yuri turns with an evident intention to retort, but any arguments are stopped short by the melodious voice surfacing from below.

“Dada...if papa is letting your hair down today…then I don’t weally want bwaids today, either.” A tiny, rosy mouth forms words between cherub cheeks – all while upside down, for Ekaterina has apparently bent her neck backwards at a nearly impossible angle to stare at them.

Though the sight is adorable beyond comprehension, Otabek nearly snorts with amusement, as their child has apparently inherited Yuri’s flexibility in the most bizarre way.

This time, said king of the barre is the one who sighs. “ _Okay_ , okay.” Immediately, Yuri’s nimble fingers begin to remove all the hairpins securing the lumps throughout Ekaterina’s scalp, unraveling soft waves of chestnut at every point. “Whatever makes you happy, my golden girl.”

Charmed by his husband’s reaction to the predictable defeat, Otabek instinctively draws both of his treasured ones into his stout arms. And as he tethers them together into a remarkable human braid, bound by unconditional love, a trio of laughter echoes throughout the room.

\--

“May I?”

“Go ahea— _NIIIICE_ , KATYA!!!!”

Yuri’s sudden roar nearly causes Otabek to drop his drink, currently grasped within his left hand while his right attempts a tedious yet familiar task with no assistance. It takes some clever maneuvering of his finger joints, but the elastic securing a braid of silver hues eventually relents.

The Russian shakes his head vigorously, releasing more and more confined hair with each movement. By this time each evening, Otabek knows that Yuri prefers to let loose both in body and spirit, just like during their younger years – even if what’s atop his head becomes a wild nest come bedtime. Under the venue lights, the gleaming greys spilling down his shoulders prove even more magnificent than they usually appear. Such a sight causes Otabek to muse at how these days, his husband tends to grumble more about the fact that he officially resembles Viktor Nikiforov _far_ too much, rather than how significantly both of them have physically aged.

Upon the enormous sheet of ice being ogled by everyone in the vicinity, their beloved Ekaterina continues to skate with frightening precision, executing each detail in her footwork as she glides from one end of the rink to the other. So extraordinary is her velocity that one’s eyeballs can barely track her path, and her own irises burn with the gusto of a tiger, for she only ever sets sight on one goal.

“ _BRRRAAWWWGGG!!!_ ”

 _The_ goal.

The buzzer thunders throughout the stadium, signaling the end of 2nd period. At a much more languid speed, their daughter travels closer to where they are seated, winking in their direction before entering the team bench. Despite taking a much-needed rest for the next minutes, however, the vice grip she places upon her hockey stick shows no sign of weakening. The jersey and guards shielding her body parts are far cries from ornate figure skating costumes, but Otabek always thinks that somehow, they look just as exquisite.

Even from afar, he can observe the fervent spirit in Ekaterina’s eyes, unwavering as the team coach delivers instructions for the next offensive. From head to toe, she is their girl on fire, but she also captivates the audience with a more muted type of drive – two opposing forces that convey parental influence at her core.

Next to him, Yuri is leaning forward in full attention, as if he were also a pertinent member in the upcoming strategy.

"Remember when you hated coming to these?" Otabek says with a light chuckle before sipping his drink.

As usual, Yuri expresses vehement denial. "I don’t know what you're talking about."

"And then you realized that not everything on the ice has to be flawless and graceful.” Otabek continues, pretending he had not heard any dissent whatsoever. “Even for us, those moments were mostly facades, anyway."

"I just accepted that Katya should be who she wants to be…as long as she’s happy, I’m happy."

Hearing the phrase that originated from his own beliefs, Otabek raises an eyebrow in mild judgment. “ _That_ train of thought sounds kind of familiar…”

An arm blindly swings backward, playfully slapping once against his chest. “Shut up.”

Now laughing, Otabek’s free hand elevates again to lovingly entangle fingers into Yuri’s hair, coiling around threads of silver that smoothly slip through his caresses. It is a habitual act, carried out often within the walls of their home throughout years of marriage. But today, he is so lost in the moment that a few extra seconds are required for him to recall their public surroundings.

Though it has been years since they both retired from the ice, and though he wants to believe that they are no longer recognized in public as their younger, eminent selves, Otabek immediately feels smartphones being clandestinely aimed towards them from all around the stands. He sighs then, fully aware that multiple angles of this tender interaction will soon be shared on the latest social platforms, echoing their reunion back in Barcelona over 35 years ago.

Despite the exposure, he feels a bout of calmness as he continues to appreciate Yuri’s hair. To him, there is no shame in loving the most refined and profound physical trait that exists in his world. Beyond the tangible elements, he knows that each strand actually represents a part in their story - the resilient length affirming their unbreakable bond, and the evolving hue professing the sheer eternity of their devotion.

“As rough as this sport can be…she’s simply beautiful on the ice.” Seemingly oblivious to all else, Yuri mumbles his observation as Ekaterina begins her return to the rink, her posture conveying sufficient preparation for the final minutes of the match.

"Yes." Subtly, Otabek unravels the observation that has always proven true in their decades together. "She’s as striking as you always were...and still _are_."

Yuri turns then, flashing his iconic, sheepish grin between faintly-pinked cheeks. There is the slightest hint of crow’s feet at the corners of his thinned eyes, but his expression remains as youthful as ever.

Otabek grins back, allowing his touch to finally venture past the tips of metallic locks. In the same moment, he decides that in many ways, silver is much more beautiful than gold.

[Unravel – End]

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanks very much for reading this one-shot! The idea has actually been swimming in my head for ages, and I finally decided to put words "on paper" this past week :D
> 
> “Katya,” short for Ekaterina, comes from my favorite Russian female figure skater, [Ekaterina Gordeeva](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ekaterina_Gordeeva). Additionally, hockey is actually one of the few sports I don’t consistently watch, so I had to do some additional research via YouTube clips ;) In all seriousness, I absolutely think that one of Otabek and Yuri’s future offspring will end up in this sport, hahaha…
> 
> Thanks again – please leave me a response here or [on Tumblr](http://fuku-shuu.tumblr.com) if you feel so inclined!


End file.
